


the sleeping bag contains the body (but not the dreaming head)

by Smilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2008, Episode: Jus In Bello, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-14
Updated: 2010-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:05:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case drops in Sam and Dean's lap in Denver. Dean muses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sleeping bag contains the body (but not the dreaming head)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta love to , I wouldn't do a single thing without you.  
> Dedicated to in the most joyous occasion of her birthday. Incidentally, this was written for 's annual challenge.
> 
> Title from Everything Must Go, by Matthea Harvey.
> 
> [Originally posted [here](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/110624.html).]

Dean's looking at the mirror when he says it the first time. He's standing there, hands on each edge of the sink, looking at himself, motionless and alert.

"You know what I was thinking?" he says, and of course it's a rhetorical question because he doesn't wait for Sam to answer.

"I should go to one of those places where you donate your sperm."

Without looking in the mirror, Sam knows that his jaw is hanging ridiculously open.

After a few minutes Sam regains the ability to speak. "God, man," he says. "Why do we always have to have conversations about your dick?"

Dean turns around then, and Sam is surprised when he can't see any trace of playfulness on his face, something close to hurt in its place.

His smile, when he talks, is entirely false. "I'm just sayin', Sam. It would be a shame for these awesome genes to go to waste."

The screams of the sirens outside cut the conversation short. It turns out a man's fallen from the building in front of their motel.

***

 _Lay low_ , Ruby had said and Denver's a big enough town for them to disappear for a while.

"Now, tell me," Dean says sotto voce, "why are we wasting our time hunting a ghost?"

Sam doesn't answer; instead he asks, "Why do you think it's a ghost?"

Dean huffs like Sam's being supremely oblivious.

"Of course it's a ghost, Sam." He picks up one of the brochures sitting beside the microfiches reader, and looks at it, uninterested.

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Three deaths, all of them happened since they started the renovations a month ago. I'd say someone's being mighty territorial."

Sam turns in his seat, keeps looking at the microfiches, at the old news scrolling there.

"Hey, Sam," Dean calls.

"Found something?"

"Nah. I was thinking. I should do it."

Sam shakes his head, as always mystified by Dean's sudden changes of subject. He's forced to ask, "What are you talking about?"

"Donating my sperm."

Sam's hand freezes above the button, but he keeps looking at the pages even though the words are blurring together in indistinct black lines.

"Do you… do you ever think about it?" Dean continues "Leaving behind something tangible, something… good."

Yes, he's thought about it, before Jess died, but also after. Not since Cold Oaks, though, since he'd known that his blood had been tainted and poisonous since he was a child.

He looks at Dean, but Dean's refocused on the microfiche he's looking at.

"Forget it, Sam," Dean answers to Sam's silence.

***

The company closed the building site after the fourth person accidentally fell from the thirteenth floor, and they left behind only the token surveillance of a man who's asleep in his guardhouse by midnight. It's laughable how easy it is to break in.

Sam unrolls the floorplans, puts the micro-maglite in his mouth, and follows Dean's fingers over the lines and symbols until he taps on one of the squares, and says "Over there."

Dean leads him through the proper building site to the old hotel, then to stairs that have been stripped of their marble and their handrails. There's enough light coming from outside for them to avoid using the flashlights.

"You positive it's still here?" Dean asks while they climb upstairs, and Sam forgets Dean can't see him, nods, and then says, "Yes."

Dean cocks his shotgun, and the noise in the silent emptiness of the stairway resounds loudly.

"We know he didn't kill himself, not when he was so close to completing his dream project. He got burned, played with stuff too big for him."

Dean grunts, says, "I hate black magic."

There's a long corridor on the thirteenth floor, doors on each side.

"Left for me, right for you," Sam decides, then opens the first door.

The walls are decorated with flowery wallpaper in a delicate shade of cream, faded and old and showing through only where there were paintings and furniture to protect it from the sun.

Sam's gone through the third room, when he hears Dean's shouted _bingo!_ He runs toward his voice, just in time to see the ghost of Paul Abercrombie flickering in and out in the gloomy light, right behind Dean.

"Dean!"

Dean rolls onto the floor, out of the line of fire, a second before Sam shoots.

"Guess we've found it," Dean says, panting amid the debris on the floor.

***

Dean leans on a tombstone, crosses his legs and cocks the shotgun, says, "Start digging, slave."

Sam lets it pass only because he's seen the way Dean keeps favoring his left arm, he regrets it as soon as Dean starts making bored sounds.

Sam's not even three inches in the grave when Dean speaks.

"You know what, Sam?" he says.

"It was a stupid idea."

Sam nods from inside the grave and says nothing.

***

Sam lies on the bed, shoulders aching after the workout in the graveyard, and thinks it will be nice sleeping in for once, not having to run come morning.

"Man, we need to do laundry." Dean's kneeling on the floor, duffel bag open between his knees, as he sniffs his clothes before separating them into three different heaps on the carpet. Sam looks at him, tries to guess on what standard he assigns the clothes.

"It's the least you can do after you made me dig the grave."

"Hey, my shoulder's still healing, you moron."

Sam stands up with a groan, then picks up his duffel bag and drags it where Dean's kneeling. He adds a shirt to the first heap, and a pair of jeans to the second. When Dean doesn't protest he knows he's guessed Dean's method right.

"It was a stupid idea," Sam says after a while, sees a nerve jumping in Dean's jaw, and knows Dean is perfectly aware of what Sam's talking about.

"And you know why? Cause you're not dying, Dean, you're not going anywhere."

Dean stills, socks hanging from his hands, then nods.

"Move your ass, lazyhead. Laundromat closes at seven-thirty."  
\--


End file.
